Bloody January. Alan Parks
Читать онлайн книгу.
boy’s eyes suddenly focused, like he’d just seen McCoy for the first time. He spun his arm round towards him and lined up a shot, pistol aimed square at his head. McCoy froze as the boy adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp crack. A cloud of sparrows took off from the roof and the screaming started in earnest.
McCoy couldn’t believe he hadn’t been hit, would have sworn he felt a push of cold air just above his head. People behind him were running, falling, shoving each other out the road to get away. Wattie shouting at everyone to keep down. They started to drop and that’s when McCoy saw her. She was lying half on, half off the pavement, body stretched across the kerb. Blonde hair, white coat, one shiny black shoe lying a few feet away from her. She tried to sit up, looked round bewildered. Blood was flowing down her legs, starting to turn the snow red. She looked down at it, her mouth opened to scream but no sound came. McCoy turned back towards the boy with the gun.
‘Put it down, pal, come on, it’s done now. Just put it down.’
The boy smiled at him, didn’t look like he was all there. His eyes were blank, faraway. He held the gun up in front of him, looked at it. Snowflakes had settled in his hair, were melting, dripping down his face. He wiped his eyes and smiled again, and that’s when McCoy realised what he was going to do.
He started running towards him, shoes trying to find purchase on the greasy ground. He was still a couple of yards away when the boy stuck the barrel up to his temple. He was screaming at him to stop, was almost at him when the boy closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
The sound was muffled this time, no crack. A reddish mist appeared on the other side of the boy’s head, bits of bone, then a thick jet of blood flew yards up into the sky. He wobbled, eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed forward onto his knees, stayed like that for a second or so, then fell forward onto the ground.
McCoy ran over and kicked the gun out his hand, trying to avoid the blood still pouring out the side of his head. Up close he was even younger than he thought. A pair of dirty white plimsolls, quilted anorak with a tear at the pocket, sparse moustache barely covering his top lip. A froth of blood was bubbling out from the side of his mouth, big chunk of the back of his skull gone, bone and brain fragments all over the tarmac.
Wattie was kneeling down by the girl, fingers on her neck. He held them there for a minute then looked up and shook his head. McCoy wasn’t surprised; amount of blood pouring out of her, she didn’t have much of a chance. Tannoy was still going. The 14 bus from Auchinairn was going to be late. He looked up at the sky and let the snow fall on his face. He could hear sirens in the distance getting louder. He turned as a bus wheeled round into the bay in front of them, driver in the cab staring at the bodies open-mouthed. He stood on the brakes too late and his bus slid across the asphalt and into the station wall. There was a crunch and the driver fell forward and landed on the horn. It blared out, echoing round the walls of the station. McCoy looked back down at the boy, his left hand was spasming, fingers opening and closing, eyes going everywhere. He coughed up a huge gobbet of dark blood. Chest was only just going up and down, breathing shallow. McCoy squatted, took hold of his hand.
‘You’re going to be okay, just hang on, no long now.’
The boy coughed again, more blood came up and ran down the side of his face onto the fresh snow. McCoy sat there holding his hand, telling him it was all going to be okay, knowing it wasn’t, wishing he was anywhere but there.
FOUR
He was sitting back on the bench by the Royston bay, smoking, when Murray turned up. Needed some time away from the blood and the uniforms bustling about and Wattie asking him questions every two seconds.
The ambulances had arrived first. The ambulance man had put his hand on his shoulder, told him they would take over. McCoy had tried to stand up but the boy’s fingers kept squeezing his. He knew it was a spasm but couldn’t let go, needed to feel he was some comfort for the boy. Ambulance man had eased his hand free. He stood there looking down at the boy until another one ushered him away.
Police cars had come next, then the vans with the uniforms in them, then the unmarked cars, then the lorries with the crash barriers. Now the place was bedlam, shouts, sirens, people crying and the tannoy still blaring out.
The line of uniforms that was blocking the entrance parted and a black Rover drove through the cordon and weaved its way through the maze of abandoned buses crowding the forecourt. Soon as it stopped a uniform scuttled over, opened the back door and Murray stepped out. Senior officers were around him in seconds, pointing over at the bodies, explaining what had happened. Murray listened for a while then held his hand up, silencing them. He pointed at the crowd gathered behind the rope cordon and sent one of them over there, barked orders at the others and they rushed off double-time towards the entrance.
McCoy watched as he strode over to where the bodies were, lifted the rope and went through. Uniforms and ambulance men stepped back, getting out his way. Wattie was standing there trying to look like he knew what he was doing. Even had his wee notebook out. Murray nodded a greeting at him, knelt down and carefully lifted the green sheet off the girl’s body. Although the boy’s body was surrounded by doctors and ambulance men, it didn’t stop him pushing them aside to have a look at him too. He asked Wattie something and he looked around, eyes finding McCoy, and he pointed over. Murray gave out some more instructions, sent Wattie scurrying off, and made his way across the forecourt. Snow was still falling but Murray had no coat, just the usual tweed jacket stretched tight over his shoulders, trilby stuck on his head. He was a big man, Murray, six-foot odds, ginger hair fading to grey, moustache on a ruddy face. Looked like a prop forward gone to fat, which he was. McCoy wasn’t sure why they got on; they had nothing in common as far as he could see. Maybe everyone else was just too scared of him to have a normal conversation.
‘You all right?’ he asked, coming in under the shelter, taking his trilby off and shaking it.
McCoy nodded. ‘I’m fine. Unlike those two.’
‘Right fucking mess,’ he said and sat down beside him. ‘Wattie said you came up here looking for the girl before anything happened. Didn’t tell him why. That right, is it?’
McCoy nodded.
‘How come?’ said Murray quietly, just the last remnants of his Borders accent remaining. He only had two speeds, Murray. Shouting, which meant he was annoyed, and talking quietly, which meant he was about to get annoyed.
McCoy sighed, knew he was in for it. ‘It was Nairn, Howie Nairn. That’s what the phone call was about, got me up to Barlinnie last night. Told me a girl was going to get killed today, wanted me to stop it.’
Murray was padding his jacket, looking for his pipe. Suddenly noticed two plain clothes had followed him over, were standing off to the side waiting. ‘What the fuck are you two doing? Standing there like spare pricks at a wedding. Fuck off and get this site properly secured, now!’
The two of them looked terrified, hurried off. Murray’d finally found his pipe, stuck it in his mouth, sat back on the bench and pointed over.
‘See that over there, McCoy? Those crashed buses, the blood, the bodies, the weans crying and the crowds of fucking gawpers trying to get past the barriers. That’s what’s known as a right royal shiteshow. A right royal shiteshow that I’m going to have to sort out. So why don’t you just start again and tell me what the fuck went on here and what the fuck it’s got to do with you.’
McCoy dropped his cigarette onto the ground, watched it fizzle out, started his story. ‘Howie Nairn got me up to Barlinnie last night, he’d got the warden to call the shop. So I get there and he tells me there is a girl called Lorna who works at Malmaison or Whitehall’s. No second name. Said she was going to get killed today. I thought he was playing games but I checked it and there is – was – a girl who worked at Malmaison, Lorna Skirving.’ He nodded over at the body. ‘Wasn’t at home this morning so we came here to meet her, except she didn’t come in on the Royston bus, so we missed her. Can’t have stayed at home last night. First thing we know that bloke’s